


Fighting For Your Life

by VoicesInMyHead



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:03:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoicesInMyHead/pseuds/VoicesInMyHead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title is lame I know but I am open to ideas. This story came from a prompt I saw on Tumblr a while back: </p><p> "damnitjimjim ~ bahorel holding a baby for the first time ｡◕ ‿ ◕｡</p><p>    bahorel fighting off monsters in the closet ｡◕ ‿ ◕｡</p><p>    bahorel play-fighting with his kids and being all dramatic when he lets them win ｡◕ ‿ ◕｡</p><p>    bahorel staring down his daughter’s boyfriend ｡◕ ‿ ◕｡</p><p>    bahorel carrying kids on his back/shoulders/arms ｡◕ ‿ ◕｡</p><p>    bahorel as a dad (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧"</p><p> The story went completely off of game plan. This will follow his journey from a sixteen year-old kid from the mountains of Northern France to his final days on the barricade ten years later. It will cover three separate Revolutions. I have the first two chapters written and a skeleton of the whole thing finished already so there is a plan. Constructive criticism is welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Les-Beaux-de-Provence, France,1821**

If he were being honest with himself, Tristan Bahorel knew the village was too small for him. He was meant for more. New ideas, inventions, ways of life could be his. Or, to put it the way his mother put it to him when she sent him away at the age of sixteen “Nobody is going to hand you anything in this life. You have to fight, kill, steal, work, take, everything for yourself. People want to hold you back, keep you down here in the mud with the rest of us. Don’t let them. Be better than me and your Papa. He had tried to argue with her that their way of life was preferable to him because they were good people. Being peasants made them better than the Bourgeoise trash that kept their heels so firmly pressed against the lower classes collective neck. But nobody argued with his Mama.

So here he was on his last night on his way to Paris. He had stopped in to one of his favorite places to have a farewell glass of wine. If he happened upon Annette by the barn as well so be it. Her husband had not liked it when he’d found the two of them in the hayloft the month before. But it had been worth it then and he was leaving for good this time. Worth the risk, right? Right. Removing the hat from his head, Bahorel was greeted by a cheerful, rousing chorus. He would miss that. But it would not be long before all of Paris would be doing the same thing. Soon a crowd developed around his table as the patrons began questioning him about what his plans were in Paris and pulling him into debates about the tumultuous state of politics as they always seemed to be. Always one to freely and loudly share his eloquently worded opinion, Tristan found himself climbing onto his table as he fell into a heated discussion with one man he had never seen before. This man had picked the wrong bar, and the wrong village, and the wrong man, to share these opinions with tonight. Not half an hour into their discussion, Tristan found himself truly listening. They had been arguing in circles and getting nowhere. It had become boring. Only one way to end a discussion like that. Throwing back the end of his bottle of wine, he slammed it on the table, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and spoke to the man “Do you listen to yourself speak, imbécile?” Knowing this would set a physical fight into motion, Tristan rose to his feet and and braced himself for an attack which came almost before he could finish speaking. The older man drunkenly stumbled into the younger man, trying to bring him to the ground. This resulted in Tristan lifting the man off his feet and pressing him down on his back onto the table and slamming his fists into his gut as he calmly dismantled the man’s arguments from earlier. The crowd surrounded the two men, laughing and cheering them on in their drunken fervor. Seeing that the man was not putting up much of a fight, Tristan became bored. He stood back, hauling the toothless graying gentleman off of his back from the table into the air. The crush of the crowd moved the two of them out the front door of the drinking establishment among women shrieking and men putting down wagers as to the outcome of the fight… or lack of one.

As if the cold air and silence of the night had a sobering effect on the older drunkard. From his place in the air, Tristan had yet to let go of the front of his shirt, despite the wave of humanity crushing upon the two of them, he kicked his feet while, beginning to plead for Tristan to let go of him. The argument was no longer any fun. Tristan rolled his eyes, cursing under his breath as he lowered the old man to the ground again and let go of his shirt. Steadying the man before he fell, Tristan’s face split into a grin, the metallic tinge of blood filtering into his mouth. “Anybody else?” he addressed the crowd, causing them to break out into wild laughter and cheering. Lifting him onto their shoulders, they carried Tristan back into the tavern. He would not be paying for his food or drink that evening. With the bad element absent from the tavern, the atmosphere returned to loud and boisterous with Tristan running the show, challenging individuals to arm wrestling, drinking contests, or lively-yet-friendly debates.

The night continued like this for hours. Tristan drank and ate everything he was given. When he did not have his hands wrapped around a bottle of wine or eating utensils, they were fondling a passing serving wench’s ass or pulling her into his lap for a few minutes. “But why are you leaving us, Ma amour? Life will be so boring without you around here,” the plump redhead, currently bouncing on Tristan’s knee, looked around the room before speaking again “And far less attractive”.

“All these girls will miss you, it is true, Tristan, but the rest of us will be glad to be rid of such a flea on our butt cheeks,” reminded Henri, the owner of the establishment, husband of Annette, and man currently losing the round of dominoes to Tristan. His round cheeks, red from all of the blood vessels that had burst over the years. His massive girth from living such a comfortable life style.

“No, you won’t, Henri. I’m good for business… Even if I never pay for anything,” Tristan countered with a wink, before finishing off another plate of food. The night was starting to wind down. People began to filter out slowly, saying their farewells to Tristan, knowing full well this would most likely be the last time they would ever meet with the young, foolhardy young man ever again. They all secretly just hoped he grew up beyond his brashness and settled down with a girl but most of them figured this would never come to pass.

With the last person gone, Annette began turning the chairs and barstools onto the table tops. Tristan had not left yet. He was standing at the bar with Henri, a small sack of money in his hand, trying to pay off the rest of the tab he had built up over the years he had been coming there. “I insist, Henri. Either take this money or I will convince Annette to take it and you know how persuasive I can be with women,” he teased.

“If Annette has her way she’ll be going with you,” Henri shrugged, he might have looked dumber than a sack of wine but he knew how things worked. Tristan Bahorel was young, vibrant, smart, charming, hot-tempered… Everything young women, and some young men, would follow into the fiery pits of Hell. He took the sack of coins from Tristan, marking down in his ledger than the Bahorel tab was officially closed. “You’re too bold. Brazen as Hell. The Devil’s going to have a field day with you, Tristan… But you are a good man and I like you, Tristan Bahorel Good luck to you in Paris,” he took the younger man’s hand in his and shook it warmly, showing that there were no hard feelings, no matter how gruffly he had ever spoken. Wiping down the bar a final time, he put away the last dishes and passed his wife, Annette on his way upstairs “I understand if you don’t come back up,” he kissed her cheek, squeezed her waste and disappeared into his living quarters.

To distract himself from the guilty feeling trying to creep into his brain, Tristan finished piling the chairs on top of their tables and carrying discarded dishes to the kitchen area to be cleaned, avoiding looking at Annette at all costs. His original plan of seducing her for a final farewell ‘Roll in the hay’ was looking to be a really childish idea. He could have chosen any other woman. Why her?

“Your bleeding all over the place, Monsieur,” Annette scolded, wiping the blood which had already dried from his lip down his face and onto the scarf tied around his neck and the shirt under it.

“It dried awhile ago,” he pointed out, uselessly. 

Annette had moved them to the water barrel outside. Pursing her lips, she soaked the rag she held in her left hand and scrubbed at the dried blood on his shirt and neck scarf, moving the cloth up under his chin roughly to work on the blood collected there. She followed the path of the blood back up to his lip, which had started bleeding again due to the awkward smile now gracing his face. 

“Ann-,” immediately, he was cut off from speaking when she pressed her hand to the unharmed side of his mouth.

“Ssh. Stop. You’re leaving forever. We could never have been anything to each other more than this in the first place. Henri is a good man but he can’t give me what you can… Please. I know I’m not beautiful and exciting like the girls you’ll meet in Paris but -” Annette continued, her back turned on Tristan and her shoulders sagging forward as if her light had gone out.

Tristan took her shoulder and pulled her around, lifting her chin with his finger to look her in the eyes “Who told you that you were not beautiful?” he carded his fingers through her hair, settling them on her neck, bringing their lips together in a gentle kiss, pulling her body to his to show her exactly the affect she was having on him. A roll of her hips was last invitation he needed. The hand that had been playing with the shorter hairs at the base of her neck slid down her spine to anchor her body as his free hand slid under her knees, bringing her even closer to him. The hay gave off a musty, earthy aroma that filled his nose. He could feel the heel of her foot kneading at the back of his leg as her mouth opened for him to plunder. The rough-spun fabric of her shift prickled the tips of his fingers as he hurriedly pushed it up and out of his way. When his fingers brushed across heat, his feet gave out from under him and they went toppling into the middle of the pile of hay.

Chuckling, she rolled her hips up into him again, grinding against the hardness she found there. She gasped feeling the cold night air on her shoulders and soon her entire torso as Tristan greedily divested her of it. The thin leather strips holding together the front of her blouse were no competition. Tristan sat back on his heels to admire her briefly; for all he knew this would be the last time he would be with a woman, let alone Annette. Her skirt and apron were already beginning to bunch up around her thighs. Impatiently, Annette shimmied the shift up more, hissing as she became completely exposed to him. Although, she wanted Tristan as badly as he wanted her, she bit her lip and looked down coyly. She always loved this game.

Tristan made to stand up, calling her bluff, his head tossing back in a loud belly-laugh as Annette sat up and grasped his leg, “Non! Please, Tristan,” she begged him, her hand slowly moving up from his knee along his thigh. When there was no further protest, her hand shifted to the front of his striped pants, massaging the hard mass she found there. Not wanting this to be over before it even started, her hands left his body to caress her own naked flesh, her eyes boring into his. Unable to control his youthful exuberance, Tristan tripped over himself as he removed his trousers without remembering to remove his boots first.

Spitting hay from his mouth, he barked a laugh, unable to meet his lover’s eyes. “Cruel woman,” he admonished, as she was curled in upon herself laughing. He managed to roll over and kick off his boots, moving to loom over her dangerously. “What punishment do you think I should inflict upon you for laughing at me, wench?” he asked teasingly, feeling her knee rubbing his groin in answer.

“You’d only be punishing yourself as well,” she pointed out needlessly.

“Mmm,” he agreed, lowering his face to the crook of her neck, inhaling the heady scent of hay, sweat and earth that surrounded them. Instinctively, he tasted the tender skin of her neck, teeth dragging along the hollow ever so lightly.

Annette’s fingers found their way into the fabric of his pants again, this time at the waist, she pulled and dragged her nails across the skin under it, a moan escaping her lips before she was able to speak again “No marks”.

Growling in frustration, Tristan found her mouth again, kissing her ferociously. His fingers seeking her heat almost automatically.The two of them had become very familiar with each other over the last year. While his fingers and lips were trying to memorize everything about her, Suzette was able to work his trousers off of his hips until they fell to his knees. “Satisfied?” Tristan smirked, crooking three fingers inside her core slowly as his thumb teased her clitoris.

Annette’s legs locked behind his knees, pulling him forward on top of her. She lifted her hips into him, silently demanding to be taken. Never one to disappoint, Tristan removed his fingers, wrapping them around his shaft to coat it before lining up with her entrance, the free hand moving to her hip, and thrusting forward until he filled her completely. A keening scream almost left her throat. Tristan kissed her in time to swallow it, his hands sliding back up along her body to anchor her to the hay and take hold of her wild illuminated hair.

He could not get enough of her. Taking her ankle from around his back, Tristan lifted her leg into the air, moving to his knees to thrust in from a different angle, leaving open-mouthed kisses along her ankle, careful not to leave marks. His pace was relentless and hard. He would pull almost all of the way out before plunging back inside her. His eyes bore into hers, not letting her look away.

Annette saw the challenge there and rose to the occasion. With a switch of her hips, the leg Tristan held in the air came back down. She then pushed him to the side and let him fall out of her momentarily before climbing to her feet and straddling him to take him inside her again, this time to ride him. Anchoring herself by taking hold of his shirt in her fists, she swiveled her hips slowly. The anticipation was agonizing for both of them but Annette was never going to get the opportunity to do this again. She was going to draw this out as long as humanly possible. Leaning back on his legs, Annette rolled her hips down onto his, panting his name softly. Her hands covering the wrinkles and sagging skin; all signs of the age difference between them.

Tristan take her hands, lacing their fingers “Don’t. I want to see all of you”. He smiled up at her as she complied but turned a bright shade of red, moving faster, as if emboldened by his request.

She brought her right hand, which still held onto his, to her clitoris; biting her lip until it bled. The pressure was beginning to coil tightly in her core. The throbbing of the tiny bundle of nerves was pounding in her ears. To keep the whimpering to a minimum, Annette pulled him up into a sitting position, his arms wrapping around her, still moving against him. The only sounds were of skin meeting skin, their panting, and the occasional animal in the distance. This was turning out to be the perfect night. Annette knew she would have to let him go after tonight but she was not want to think about that. There was only right now. There was only Tristan. There was only her. There was only how he made her feel.

Tristan claimed her mouth again as he tensed up, growling deep in his throat as he came hard. Annette continued to move on his, rolling her hips to work him through his orgasm. Although, she had not reached her orgasm yet. As Tristan came down from his, his eyes blearily focused on her “Did you…” he asked, weakly, still recovering from his own.

“No. It’s okay,” Annette, shook her head, stroking his sweaty face.

“The hell it is,” Tristan answered angrily, pushing back the hair from his face and grabbing her close to him again, his hands immediately moving to her center. He moved so that she was splayed out on the hay with her legs open for him. He teased three fingers into her center, opening and closing them rhythmically, his thumb rubbing hard at her clitoris as his little finger reached further back to stimulate her anus.

Shrieking out of surprise, Annette almost shut off again but stayed where she was, letting him have control. Tristan’s mouth found a nipple as his free hand went to the other breast, toying with them, groaning at the heavy weight of them in his hand and mouth and at the feel of her hands tugging back in his hair, pulling on it harder than ever. She was going to come for him if it was last thing he ever did.

It did not take much longer than that for Annette to climax. She climaxed so hard she almost blacked out for a second. Panting his name, she collapsed against him. “Mmm Tristan,” she kissed his lips lightly.

“Annette,” he was so close to asking her to go with him that he did not allow himself to say anything more than that. Untangling himself from her, he began pulling his striped trousers back up, still watching her.

“Of course. You’re right,” She smiled sadly at him before standing up and fixing her own clothes and removing the hay from her hair and clothing. With one more sad look over her shoulder at Tristan, she whispered “Prends soin de toi, ma amour. Au revoir” before leaving and returning to her husband.

Tristan heard what Annette said but had not allowed himself to react. He was leaving and she was better off here. With this man who could provide for her. He did not need to be tied down. He made himself a bed out of the hay on the other side of the barn and fell asleep, waking before the sun came up and returning on his journey to Paris as he woke.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's three years since Tristan Bahorel left home and arrived in Paris. He's settled into a regular routine. Met some dear friends and established himself as a flourishing student of the law... and criminal. Old habits die hard. This chapter introduces us to a nineteen year old Tristan, fresh from a brawl in a brothel. Feuilly makes an appearance. Through Tristan's eyes we will witness the Bourgeois injustice system

The child had been taking the beating behind the printer’s shop. It truly had not been the child’s fault. It was the dead of winter and there were many people milling about without a place to go. They seemed to flit from one fire to another, one spark of light to the next. The masses flocked from one doorway to the next, searching for warmth and food. Why had he stepped in to stop in the first place? The printer, Monsieur DuBois, caught the boy talking to his daughter while she, Margery, burnt the rubbish from the store. 

　　　　Tristan had been drawn toward the store because of the yelling. Nursing a hangover and fresh bruises, he wound his way through the narrow alleyways and backstreets, depositing his friends along his route from the tavern. “I still can’t believe she gave the money back,” he was laughing with a redheaded young man who was straightening what appeared to be a workman’s uniform under a leather apron. “You can’t be that good, Feuilly. She was a whore! Whores do not sleep with anyone for free” Tristan’s large hand slammed the broad back of his friend as their attention was turned by a commotion in the next alley. “Details later. I want copious details,” Tristan laughed, shaking his head.

　　　　Feuilly, the redhead in question, shrugged modestly and nodded at a warehouse. He had arrived at work. It was there they parted ways. Feuilly to enter the warehouse for his six hour shift, and Tristan to investigate what the screaming was about. “Papa, stop! He was doing no harm. Go!” a young blonde woman, apparently this man’s daughter, was gripping the raised beefy arm of a red-faced and bloated older gentleman, which was poised to strike a small boy on the ground at the older man’s feet. When the boy realized the beatings had stopped, he got to his feet, stole a stale piece of bread and ran off. Unwilling to hit his own daughter at least, the shop owner lowered his arm, a string of course words flying at his daughter instead. Tristan moved in the shadows, drawn toward the source of the chaos despite his broken nose throbbing a steady beat in his head. She stood her ground, silently letting it pass over. She was most likely used to these outbursts. The shopkeeper’s wave of anger subsided almost as quickly as it had flared. He ordered the girl, called ‘Margery’, to finish burning the rubble and then come inside before disappearing inside himself. 

　　　　Removing his cap from his head, Tristan emerged from the shadowed alley, smiling broadly, despite the trail of blood “Mademoiselle,” he greeted her politely.

　　　　“Monseiur,” the blonde’s head bowed slightly as she dipped into a slight curtsy, trying not to notice his bleeding nose, beginning to bruise around the bridge. Her eyes drifted up to the blood streaming from his nose onto the blue cravat around his neck. “Pardon the intrusion... Do you need some help?” her voice trembled as she made herself approach the strange bleeding man. He was bleeding and obviously needed assistance.

　　　　“What.. This?” the large man laughed, removing the cloth from around his neck and mopping up the blood from around his injured nose gingerly. He flinched almost imperceptibly; if this young woman hadn’t been watching him so intently, as if he were going to faint or falter in his steps at any minute, he would have allowed himself a show of pain, no one would have seen it. 

　　　　“I was actually referring to the bleeding man behind you,” came her reply as she crossed her arms over her stomach, an eyebrow raised and her head cocked to the right a little. The apprehension she felt, as she watched the blood disappear into the cloth Tristan now held on his nose. “What can I do to help?” she asked, stepping back a few paces when he approached an upturned wooden box and sat, taking the blue cloth between his hands and holding it more gingerly to his nose as he closed his eyes. 

　　　　He opened them again once to look at her as the wave of nausea passed over him. Breathing in through his mouth deeply twice before he spoke, he focused on his face. There was only one this time. Good. Right. “I need to fix my nose. Fetch me some wine,” he kept breathing through as deeply as he could through his mouth, focusing on the task at hand instead of the pain coursing through his head and what he needed her to do. When she was gone, Tristan slumped forward resting his elbows onto his knees and blew his nose hard into his cravat, already soaked with caked with his blood. 

　　　　“Right away,” she agreed, disappearing into the back of the shop for what seemed like an eternity but in reality was only a matter of a few minutes. She returned with a bottle of red and she also carried a mirror and a bowl with some rags and water sloshing around in it. “I thought they could be useful,” she shrugged, seeing the skeptical look on his face.

　　　　Tristan smiled, having mopped up what he could of the blood. He set aside the bloody cravat and picked up the mirror to assess the damage to his nose. Turning his head from side to side, he put the mirror down and soaked a rag in the water to clean up more of the blood. He continued until all of the blood was gone and the bowl of water and rags had been transformed. “What is this place? I saw you helping that boy earlier. You did not have to do that,” Tristan ventured.

　　　　The young woman’s back stiffened as she took the bowl of rags and bloody water from the brutish man. He whole countenance suddenly had grown cold at his words. “My father owns this printing business. The boy’s name is Guilliame. He is a sweet and kind and intelligent boy whose parents can no longer afford to feed him so he ran away. He was warming himself by the rubbish pile my father was having me burn of our garbage for the week. I give him our leftovers. I would do more but he is too proud to take it.”

　　　　“Hold the mirror straight,” he requested, uncomfortable under her gaze as she spoke. She was... different than what he had expected. 

　　　　Silently, the blonde held the mirror as the strange man asked, turning her head so that she could make sure she held the mirror at the correct angle for him to be able to see himself correctly. Any minute now, Tristan was sure the young woman would not be able to handle watching him realign his nose. She was going to balk at either all of the blood or the thought of the pain he was in or the sound of the cartilage of his nose moving back into place. Leaning forward, he inhaled and exhaled deeply for a few minutes to make sure he was done bleeding and was clearheaded enough to continue the business at hand. Deciding he was indeed clearheaded enough to get on with it, Tristan opened the first bottle of wine the young woman brought him and drank for a few seconds before setting the bottle aside and visibly steeling himself. He formed a triangle around his nose, fitting his fingers firmly together, bringing the palms together as he moved them down in as straight a line as he could. His eyes focusing intently on his image in the mirror. As his hands slid down he exhaled through his mouth slowly to match his pace. It took all of his concentration to stay upright. When Tristan was satisfied with the position of his nose, he polished off the bottle of wine he had already opened.

　　　　Silently, Margery dumped the bloody water into the sewer and returned to his side, offering him a large bundle of clothe she had just finished ringing out “This shouldn’t drip now. It’s the coldest water I could get my hands on. Go on. Can’t have that pretty nose of yours swelling up to the size of a tree trunk,” she smiled as she took the sheet from him and rested in tenderly against the bruised bridge of his nose. “You can finish off these bottles... They won’t be missed. Just leave the sheet back here. I will come and retrieve it after Mass,” Margery was saying as she got up to leave him. 

　　　　“’Mass’?” he repeated inquisitively. She couldn't be one of... Those, could she? “Don’t tell me you’re a religious sheep, then?” he could hope he heard her wrong.

　　　　“Hmm, Sorry to disappoint you, sir. I am a devout Catholic. I do believe Jesus and God has plans for us all. I do believe in doing good things for others. If these things together make me a sheep in your eyes then.... Baaaah,” she bleated in his face as she tied a knot under her chin in the veil she planned to wear into Mass.

　　　　“Margery, ma colombe, we really should get going if we want to get the front pew,” a young soldier, clearly not expecting to see anyone else in the alley followed her, immediately standing at repose, “Mademoiselle DuBois, when you are ready,” he inclined his head toward her, offering his elbow. His uniform was crisp, blue and white and clean and perfect. 

　　　　This man was exactly the type Tristan expected ‘Miss Perfect’ to be with, really. Jumped up, military type. Probably had it in good with that blustering old man of a father. Pristine white and blue uniform, perfectly sharp saber at his side, probably hadn’t seen combat yet. Tristan rose to his feet slowly, holding on the boxes and finishing off the second bottle of whine to steady himself before offering his hand. “Tristan Bahorel. I was lucky enough to wander into this very alley when I needed assistance with a broken nose which looked much worse than it turned out to be. I am afraid I frightened her more than I had intended.” he shook the hand of the Lieutenant, quite aware of the challenge in the man’s grip and in the sharpness of his gaze. Tristan met these with a warm, broad smile and a laugh. “I’ll leave you two to it, then. Don’t worry, Mademoiselle. All evidence of my being here will be gone before you return with your family. Thank you for your hospitality,” he bowed slightly, and began retrieving the bottles he had already finished. The two of them vanished into the house again after the lieutenant was calmed enough by Margery’s reassurances that the man was just a random hooligan whom had broken his nose in a fight and wandered into their alleyway of their publishing company.

**Author's Note:**

> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~END NOTES~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
> Translation of French to English from Google Translate:  
> “Prends soin de toi, ma amour. Au revoir” >>> "Take care, my love. Goodbye "


End file.
